


Þǫgn [Silence]

by Froggyflan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Enough to kill a human adult, M/M, Romantic Fluff, just really sweet and gentle im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: Mako comes home to a warm welcomeAs seen in the Home on the Road Fanzine!





	Þǫgn [Silence]

**Author's Note:**

> I am still going through quite the rut, and I hope I can update all my other fics soon. Please send your love my way. I need it.
> 
> Illustrated by tesoro mio [MarshalPizza!](http://marshalpizza.tumblr.com/)

He had not been counting the days, but they were starting to stack up.

Time had not been an issue when he was busy. There had been too many things to tend to. Camps to set up and food to prepare and battlements to ready. Not to mention the killing. That is easy to lose one’s mind in. He is a mountain amongst hills; men are but children compared to him. Blood had soaked into his cloak and hair, and he had looked so much like his younger comrades. They would say he was too old to fight, but they know better. He will be a bringer of death until the gods decide his time is up, when the sea swallows him whole. No, killing is easy.

They had relied on him to carry the weight of the battle on his shoulders. He had lead them through the fields and through the towns, turning them to ash and ruin and nothing. He made sure the spoils did not go into the wrong pockets. He counted the dead. There was no room in his head for trivial things. He wanted to think of a soft bed and sweet honey on bread and a silly voice in his ear, to drink and be merry under the stars, but his blade had not been sheathed yet. The fires deep in his heart had to burn until his strength was no longer needed. Only then could he stop to dream.

It was far too cold to be sailing; that, he knew. The raid had taken longer than they anticipated, and the waters were frigid by the time they started home, not at all welcoming to their victorious heroes. But winter meant a time of rest, which Mako was nearly desperate for. He craved the quiet stillness of his house and the warmth of a hearth. He wanted to sleep for many days without break. The wind that chilled through his bones did not help put those elderly thoughts out of his mind.

Land was fast approaching, and the sight encouraged the men to no bounds, rowing faster to the tune of their song. Their voices bellowed over the water to sound their arrival, loud enough to shake the earth, he supposed. Excitement thrummed through the drakkar, the wood moaning with the increase of speed, bobbing in the water. The bow pointed its sharp teeth and forked tongue toward shore. Nearly there.

The wives were waiting. They had heard the call from over the mist of morning. Their arms waved in the distance, singing pretty hymns like sirens beckoning them in. The rowdiness of the soldiers made the drakkar shake and sway violently, and their booming voices only grew louder. Mako forced them back down; Focus on getting there first, you fools. And they did, clamoring to row as quickly as their arms could move, in haste for a maiden’s hearty embrace and a welcoming feast. Faster and faster.

When the drakkar drifted to the docks, a great escape occurred. The men threw themselves from the ship, abandoning their post to draw themselves into the arms of their women. It was a fine rejoice, but Mako barked at them to finish what they had started. Soon, the boat was tied, their supplies were collected, and they made their way into the village as a happy stampede, glad to live another day. By sunset, they would begin a celebration for the living, the dead, and the gods. Hot food and dancing would abound.

Mako trailed behind. He knew he would not have a pretty someone meeting him at the beach. No, he would meet him in the woods just beyond the village, to the north. He must have heard all the excitement and gone the other direction. Mako walked past the busy people and their homes, away from the high spirits and happy voices. The fog pulled him away and hid him under its blanket. The trees seemed to open up and welcome him to the wild. He could disappear so easily like that.

The crunch of snow under his soft leather shoes was peaceful, and he admired the way the noise faded out until there was nothing. No birds or bugs in this kind of weather; nothing but the whistle of wind in dead branches. The stark grey of the trees in the white of the ground was lovely; long twigs sprouting from the snow like hairs on a face. He rubbed his own chin at that thought; a short beard had grown itself to fight off the cold. Mako did not know if it would be welcome. He may grow jealous that Mako can grow one and yet his face is as smooth as a woman’s. Mako would not say that, though. Men had been killed for lesser insults. But he would let Mako off with a punch to his jaw and a stomp on his foot, nothing more.

“Ay,” a voice called out, and Mako had missed that sound. Mako had expected to hear him before he saw him, and he did not disappoint. He could hear an arrow nocking, the loud stretch of a worn bow string. Mako could not see it in the thick fog, but he knew from where it came.

“Are you going to shoot me with that?” Mako’s own voice echoed in the forest loudly, and it was answered with a mad laugh.

“Not if you stand still.”

Mako believed him. He heard the bow release, a deep thump as the arrow loosened, and it flew out through the fog and into the snow. It landed a good distance from Mako’s feet, and only then did he notice the large target carved into the tree beside him. There was a moment of silence again before a curse followed, then a ruffling of movement.

“I was going to show you how good I had become,” he grumbled, and he moved nearer to Mako in the airy clouds. “Still have the shakes of an old man.”

“I can think of better ways to greet someone,” Mako answered, and moved toward the voice as well. “Considering your aim is so terrible.”

“And that is why I leave the aiming to you.”

What a wonderful face that met him. It had not aged a day since he saw it last, and yet the way Jamison stood in the fog made him seem mysterious and bold, so much stronger than before. A desire to impress, maybe. Embarrassment, more likely; trying to impress Mako with manly feats. The pile of winter furs on his shoulders were dark and heavy, making him slouch under their weight. Sunken eyes told of sleepless nights, that Mako had not been the only one with weights bearing down on him. But that did not stop the grin spreading over his face, as sly and devilish as ever. He had so missed everything about him.

“My jarl,” Mako breathed gently despite the thick air, and he offered his hand. The dirt on his fingers and palm made him grimace. He should have at least washed before their meeting. But Jamison had never minded before. He welcomed it, if anything. He had once said a dirty man was never afraid. With blood staining his sword and garments, Mako knew that to be true.

Jamison walked forward to take his hand, and the limp was barely there. A good sign. He’d been doing well to practice while Mako had been gone. And he had even tended to the peg, ornate wood polished and shiny with oil. Maybe Mako had finally gotten through that stubbornness after all. 

Jamison’s other hand lifted to tug at Mako’s beard, pushing his long fingers through the grey, wiry strands. “Oh, you are so handsome with that rug on your face. I might lay you right on the floor by my bed.”

“Tempting,” Mako said, and the touch on his chin made his stomach warm, as if it was full of ale. Pleasant and satisfying. “But I prefer on the bed.”

There was an incredible look on Jamison's face, his mouth opened wide to let out a shriek of laughter, his arms wrapped around his middle and his good leg bounced in the snow. The sound of it broke through the quiet of the wood, sharp and grating and far too ugly, but just the kind of solace Mako’s lonely soul had yearned for. No one else could make Jamison laugh like that; no one else had ever laughed for Mako like that. The sight of his jarl’s red face and watery eyes tore through Mako's armor and plunged into his heart like a sharpened axe.

“You dog,” Jamison gasped, wiping his eye of mirthful tears. They might have been relieved tears, for all Mako knew. It had been near the end of summer when he left, and there was no way of knowing if Mako would come back at all. The patches in Jamison’s striking blond hair were from his own nervous hands and the twitches in his skin were so obvious. He imagined his jarl spending his nights staring into the fire as he always did, alone in his big house with nothing but a single worry. Mako let a real smile grace his lips, and it had been so long since he had.

Jamison wheezed as he pulled himself together, but giggled as he yanked at Mako’s cloak and sleeves, straightening them of their wrinkles. “But never mind that! You just got home! Time to eat and rest and be well! Come on!”

He took a few steps toward the village, but Mako stayed where he stood. The snow had started to fall again, gentle and silent. “But if we go back now, I can not kiss you until everyone is asleep.”

How Mako could so easily become a mess of emotion whenever he saw Jamison was truly beyond him. Jamison turned back to give him another surprised look, only for it to turn wicked and clever. “Oh, you are full of funny things. Are you saying you missed me as much as I missed you? Go on, speak up.”

Mako smiled wider then. He need not say more for fear of embarrassing himself. “I already made myself clear.”

Jamison answered with another laugh before bounding the few steps to return to him. Cold, dry lips pressed to his so insistently that he would have been knocked over, if he were a weaker man. Jamison’s arms locked behind Mako’s neck, hanging heavily from him like a child. He pulled at Mako, drawing him closer and tighter against his body, as if he wanted for them to become just one person. Mako may have liked that idea.

Eventually, he gave in to the anxious tugging and let Jamison drag him down into the snow, push him onto his back, and settle on his big belly. Mako’s thick fur cloak spread out on the ground for them to rest in, and with Jamison’s furs shrouding them both, they stayed warm despite the chill trying to creep into their garments. Jamison continued to press lively kisses across Mako’s face as the snow sank under their weight, creating a hole that he wished they could make their new home. No one would see them out here, and it would be a wonderful, quiet life.

“I cannot wait until night either,” Jamison murmured. His hands clutched into Mako’s tunic. “I have waited too long.”

“You never were very patient,” Mako hummed against his cheek, kissing where his jaw met his ear. The grip on his clothes tightened. Jamison knew what Mako meant to say beneath those mischievous words. Mako pulled Jamison further up until his chest was pressed to Mako’s ear. His thumbs grazed over Jamison’s coat, feeling thin bones underneath the fine silk of his tunics, listening to his breath come and go, his heart speaking. It called out its owner’s name: Ma-ko. Ma-ko.

Jamison’s fingers in his hair was what he needed more than anything, and he sighed at the sensation. The weight of his jarl laying on top of him, keeping him grounded, made him feel heavy with adoration. This was what his dreams would have been about. His body ached at the contact, desperate and deprived of it. This was some sort of magic; a seduction of his senses, turning him to mush. Jamison shifted to hold his cheeks, kissing at his nose and the creases in his face, where battles and old age had made themselves known. His hands gripped at Jamison’s sides, squeezing them just to remind himself that he was there; they were both there.

It was a long while before they noticed anything beyond themselves. They laid in the snow that did not feel cold, in the fog that did not feel stifling, and listened to the sound of a silent forest. If Mako listened well enough, he could hear the cheering and bustling of a feast about to begin. The people would be wondering where their jarl was, where his húskarl had run off to in such a rush. They could not raise suspicion or risk being caught. The thought of moving was painful, but he knew it would have to come. They would have to return to their charade.

“They are waiting for you,” Mako said, and it made Jamison rise up on his elbows and stare down at him with tired eyes. His breath drew in a deep sigh, his eyebrows pushed together as if it were a terrible thing Mako had just said. He pondering it for a moment before settling back down like a lazy dog, his head curled under Mako’s chin. Even with the beard, Jamison’s messy hair tickled at his skin, but Mako dared not move. It was a sweetness he had missed.

“Just a little longer,” Jamison whispered, as if the gods would hear him and know their secret. “Stay one more moment.”

Mako breathed in Jamison’s scent, of fire and wood and ash, and let it all settle inside him. He needed to remember what it felt like to be at peace, and let it all come back. It was a sleepy feeling, soft and calm, filling and right. With the earth and air so white, he was sure they could stay away without anyone knowing. His body felt heavier than the sea, stuck to Jamison with every bit of himself, and he knew he could not leave just yet. The world would have to wait for them. 

Mako could not say no.


End file.
